


One-Shots, Drabbles, and Other Ideas

by EmmaDestler



Category: American Horror Story, Gotham (TV), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber, Sherlock (TV), Supernatural, Tom Hiddleston RPF
Genre: Drabble, Drabble Collection, Eventual Romance, Multi, One Shot, Romance, Vampires, Victorian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-30
Updated: 2018-04-03
Packaged: 2019-02-08 22:05:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12873975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmmaDestler/pseuds/EmmaDestler
Summary: All in the title.





	1. Chapter 1

Hello, my loves. It's been a while since I've written anything, school has been insane. I'm sorry for deleting "Parrish." I am in the process of editing, revising, re-writing, etc. some of the chapters, and I will publish the better/updated version within the next few months. 

This is a collection of ideas, drabbles, and one shots that I've written. I hope that you will give me feed back on each one so that I know if I should continue or discontinue the stories. 

Thanks for all the love and support. 

xx Emma


	2. Tom Hiddleson Drabble || RPF

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A RPF starring Tom Hiddleston.   
> Period drama, set in Victorian England. No specific decade.  
> Tags: Romance, supernatural, vampires, depression

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was randomly struck with inspiration to start writing, rather than do my maths homework. This was the result- the beginning of yet another vampire novel (because, of course the world needs more of those, right?). I'm not sure if I want to continue to write it, or if there is anything I should expand upon. 
> 
> Please read and comment your thoughts and/or ideas. I would be very appreciative to hear from you all. 
> 
> xx Emma.

The rain pattered outside the breakfast room window. Though it was a lite fall, it had been falling all morning making it impossible to go out into the garden. Slightly upset by the disruption of his morning routine, Tom found himself sitting at the bay window, tracing patterns into the water droplets that beaded on the other side of the thick glass. A cup of tea was in his other hand, and a tattered copy of Shakespeare’s Sonnets lay open, face down, in his lap. Normally, nothing would distract him from his books, but something about the way the rain fell on this particular morning was mesmerising. It was as if magic was in the air. 

Tom brought his cup to his lips, and scrunched up his face as now-cold tea went down his throat. How long had he just been staring out the window? He placed the cup down next to him on the bench, and picked up his book so that he could mark his place. Book closed, he stood from his seat, stretching his long limbs in an effort to wake himself more from his daydream. He then picked up the tea and took it into the kitchen. He placed both his book and the cup on top of the island counter that sat in the middle of the rather small room, and then made his way up the stairs to his study in the attic. 

Thomas Hiddleston was a writer, and a very good one too. He had written and published several short stories and articles for local papers, and was currently working on his second novel. He lived alone in a large Elizabethan mansion fit for at least twenty servants and staff members, on an estate that he inherited when his father passed away. Though he was a kind-hearted man and always appeared to be jovial, Mr. Hiddleston prefered to be alone. He was a recluse in every sense of the word, he even prefered to conduct business through a messenger boy rather than visit his publishers in person. 

Very rarely did Tom ever leave his estate. He spent most of his days locked away in the attic writing and rewriting. He didn’t even bother to dress himself, sitting at his desk in his sleepwear. Many people gossiped about him, and many stories circulated ‘round. Some of the people in the nearby village believed he suffered from melancholia due to his father’s passing, but those people were only few and far between; they were mostly women who suffered from the same disease, and whom had a deep affection for the man that had such a way with words. The local doctor dismissed the concerns he’d heard from members of the community, informing them that like hysteria, melancholy was a disease that only affected women. He, and many other medical professionals were wrong. 

Tom did suffer. Every day he felt an immense sadness inside of him, and every day that he awoke, it only continued to grow bigger. A learned man, Tom didn’t just read literature, but also medical journals. He understood that what he felt was not normal, that he shouldn’t be in so pain, but the psychiatric field of the day was not very advanced, it did nothing to ease his mind. So, he brushed away the idea that he could be helped or fixed somehow, and dismissed the feelings as nothing but grief. It made sense in his mind. After all, his entire family was buried in the cemetery only an acre away from the house. 

Sitting at his desk, Tom slaved over a piece of paper and pen: Constance approached the door silently, for she feared that if she were heard, that her life would be in danger… He stopped writing, picked up the paper, and crumbled it into a ball. He reached for a new piece, picked up his pen, and began to write once more: The loud rumble of a noise coming from behind the door caused Constance’s body to rapture in fear. She slowly and silently approached it, knowing that what was behind it could end her life. Tom set down his pen and sighed. “Am I ever going to finish this novel?” He said aloud to himself. 

He looked up and out the window that his desk was placed in front of. His eyes widened with surprise as he noticed a person standing outside in his garden. He stood and leaned closer to the glass, taking notice that it was a woman. How did she even get onto his property? Tom made his way to his bedroom where he dressed himself in something more appropriate, then made his way down stairs and to the back door. It was a shame, his shoes would be ruined by the mud. He reluctantly opened the door and stepped outside. “Miss?” he called out from the stone patio. 

Even with the rain in his eyes he could clearly see her now. She was a young woman, possibly in her early twenties. She had beautiful blonde hair and pale blue eyes, and her skin reflected that of a porcelain doll’s. Tom had never fixed his eyes on such a creature in his life, and he found himself at a loss for words. He stood there, soaking and cold, watching the woman admire his roses. 

Word Count: 891


	3. Phantom of the Opera Drabble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU Phantom story taking place in modern day.   
> Ships: Eristine   
> Tags: eristine, pregnancy, abusive relationship, Raoulstine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this a few years ago, on my phone, in the middle of night and at six am on the bus ride to school. I don't think that it is any good, but I do believe it could be the basis for a story. As always, leave a comment on what you think I should do with it.   
> xx Emma
> 
> P.S.   
> Please take into account how and when I wrote this, because it really isn't good. The grammar and spelling is awful.

One

Christine de Chagny let out a sigh of contentment as she settled into the warm water that filled the cracking, porcelain claw-foot tub. It'd been a long day, and she wanted nothing more than to feel a bit relaxed. As she reached for a bar of soap and a washcloth, her mind wandered. She'd wished that today's events had been but a blur or even a nightmare that she'd wake up from, but to her disappointment, she knew everything was real; every detail of what happened was as vivid and fresh in her memory as it was in the moment that it had occurred.  
Christine had awakened this morning feeling happy and refreshed from a good night's sleep, but was soon brought down when she heard her husband's voice, yelling from across the house. The pregnant woman sighed and got out of bed, practically waddling out of the bedroom and down the stairs to Raoul's study.  
She stood in the doorway as she watched him yell at someone over the phone. Something about stocks. It was always about stocks. Raoul was loaded, but he was always finding a way to invest in something new and make more money than he could actually handle. He would make up excuses such as "it's for the new baby," or "I want you and the children to have the best lives as possible," but Christine was just never convinced. She believed him to be a greedy, self-centered man to his core, though his outward appearance and mannerisms would say otherwise.  
She looked at him sadly before leaving and walking down the hall to the kitchen to start cooking breakfast for the family. She brewed a pot of coffee for Raoul and then started on mixing pancake batter.  
Just as Christine was about to pour some of the batter on the pan into front of her, one of her young children came running down the stairs and over to her for a good morning hug. Christine laughed lightly as her oldest son, who was only five, raised his arms up to her. "Morning, my little Gustave," she said with a smile as the child rubbed the sleep from his eyes. "Are you hungry?"  
Little Gustave nodded and looked down to the kitchen stove that he and his mother stood in front of. "Can you make them with chocolate chips?" he asked, voice still tired. Christine just nodded and moved to put him back down before walking over to the pantry and getting a bag of chocolate chips to mix into the batter. As she worked she heard Gustave yell, "Daddy!" excitedly, and looked up to see a now smiling Raoul picking up the child.  
"Hey, buddy," he said happily as he walked more into the room. He interacted with his son for a moment before putting him down. Gustave ran off to play somewhere and Raoul instantly went over to the coffee pot that sat on the counter next to the stove. "Morning, my love," he said to Christine, leaning over to kiss her on the cheek before grabbing a mug and pouring himself a cup of liquid gold, desperately needing the caffeine fix.  
"Good morning," Christine told him, trying to put a smile on her face, but she just couldn't bring herself to. When Raoul started the day off angry, he tended to be very easily angered for the rest of it. Christine would try her best to do everything that would prevent him from going off, but the truth was, she couldn't. She'd always do something wrong, and he would always yell at her, and occasionally raise a hand.  
"What's wrong?" Raoul asked, filled with concern. Lately his wife had been on an emotional roller coaster considering her pregnancy, so he tried his best to make sure she was alright, but this time, her mood had nothing to do with her imbalanced hormones. She was just afraid that he would do something to scare her or the children. At least it was still morning and he wasn't drunk yet.  
"Oh, nothing, love," Christine replied, forcing a smile onto her lips. There it was, the smile that Raoul fell in love with. She hoped he wouldn't see through her, and her hopes were fulfilled because he simply kissed her and walked off to sit down at the table. She let out a silent sigh of relief, she was safe for now. If he thought that she was scared of him, he would be upset, and then well-give her a reason to be scared. After  
Breakfast was pretty good. Everything went alright. The kids, Gustave and his younger sister Émeline, who was three, sat at the table picking at food, talking, and just being normal kids. Often Christine would watch them in adoration, longing for when she too had a sense of wonder and innocence as the two beautiful angels sitting in front of her did.  
After breakfast, Raoul went back to his study to work, while Christine sat in the den and watched TV as the children played on the floor in front of her. Just a normal day.  
But around noon when Christine started on lunch for the children, hell broke loose. "Dammit!" Raoul yelled from his study. "Fuck!" Christine took a deep breath before walking out of the kitchen. Raoul knew that Christine didn't approve of foul language when the children were home, so she was quite irritated by the fact that she was having to remind him this. The young soprano knocked on the door of her husband's study before entering, not waiting for him to answer.  
"Raoul, what's wrong?" she asked before he even had a chance to react to her presence. Christine walked over to stand next to him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders.  
"I'm sorry, Christine," he said firmly, immediately removing her hand from him, "They're downstairs, aren't they?" Raoul didn't seemed phased at all that he was currently being a bad influence, he just seemed irritated from being interrupted.  
"Raoul," Christine tried again, this time, placing a hand below his chin, making him look at her, "What happened, love?" her voice was soft yet adamant, she wasn't going to let him ignore her.  
"We just lost a fortune worth of money," he spat back, standing up from his chair and pushing past her. Raoul went over to a table that was set up by the window on the other side of the room, and poured himself a glass of brandy. "You should leave, I'm sure I'm not pleasant to be around right now," he mused.  
Christine, being the stubborn girl that she was, rolled her eyes and walked over to him. "Don't worry about the money, Raoul, we aren't exactly poor, now are we?" she said, trying to ease him, but it didn't work out.  
"Christine! I told you to leave," he said, now more angry than before.  
"How much money was it? I bet we can make more than the amount we lost if I started performing again-" she began. She had been thinking of bringing this up to him; lately she’d thought about getting back to her musical career. She had given it up when she became pregnant with Gustave, and had only done a small handful of performances since he was born. She hadn't planned on bringing up the sensitive subject like this though.  
"No," was all Raoul managed to say before finishing off his glass and pouring another. 'Why doesn't he just drink from the bottle?' Christine often thought to herself. He was an alcoholic, and the only one in their house that drank anything like that.  
"But-"  
"No! If you sing, he might try to find us," Raoul growled.  
"I thought you said he was dead," Christine whispered. Raoul had killed her angel. She was sure of it. She was more than sure that the monster she married had murdered the monster that she'd truly loved.  
"He is," Raoul quickly tried to cover for his obvious slip up.  
Christine stared him down. "I'm sure I just heard you say otherwise, Raoul," she said bitterly.  
"Don't speak to me that way. And don't question me, either. Now, leave and go tend to the children," he demanded of her.  
"You can't run away from this conversation Raoul. We will talk about this, right now. Tell me, did you kill him or not?"  
Raoul then slapped Christine across her face, causing her to fall over. She immediately caught herself, trying not to land on her stomach. She began cry, and Raoul then realized what he'd just done. "Christine," he said, dropping the floor in a panic.  
"Don't,"she began, pushing herself up with her arms and moving to grab onto the corner of his desk so that she could stand, "Don't touch me again." Tears streaked down her face she left the room.


	4. My Solitude || Phantom of the Opera Drabble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU Phantom of the Opera story taking place in modern day New York. 
> 
> Tags: Introduction, Eristine, Erik Destler, setting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the intro to another Phantom idea I began work on when I was in high school. So, again, please excuse the writing. There is more to the story, but I feel like it needs to be heavily revised, so I decided to share the introduction and see what you all think. Please leave some feedback.   
> xx, Emma

Introduction 

The apartment was small and ratty. Opening the door, you would see the kitchen, dining area, and the common room all at first glance, to the left was a small closet and a bedroom, which was used for storage, and to the right was the “master” bedroom. The walls were composed of peeling off-white paper, and the once white doors were now a yellowish shade. The floor of the kitchen was a cheap linoleum that was colored black and white, like a retro 50s, checkered diner. Moving further into the apartment, the linoleum changed to a dirty, gray carpet. 

In one corner of the room stood a baby grand piano. This object was the only thing in the apartment that looked new. It was taken care of, it was loved. The sleek black finish of the instrument shined in the dimly lit room. It even appeared to sparkle a bit when it was dark. Next to the piano on one side sat a large pile of sheet music, on the other a music stand. Across from the piano was a tattered leather couch, a small lamp, and cracking coffee table. 

This was the place that world-renowned composer Erik Destler called his home. 

The man was a mystery to all who enjoyed his music. He would never attend events or galas, and wouldn’t even see his own operas performed. To most, he was simply a name that lurked in the shadows. To most, he didn’t even exists. But there were some, a very small and select few of people, who knew of him, and whom were very close--as close as allowed at least. 

There was an older Persian man that claimed to have known Monsieur Destler long ago, and who spent his time still watching out for him. There was an older woman who had been a faithful friend and servant to the composer in his darkest hours, and still remained at his side; then there was her daughter, a young woman with potential who had the drive to become a star; Erik had taken young Meg Giry under his wing, and focused the time and energy he did not spend writing, on her. There was a young, rich man, who hated Erik with all of his being. And finally, there was the young soprano that haunted Erik’s mind constantly. She was the woman he loved, obsessed over, took care of, and mentored. She was Christine Daae--once someone within arms reach, someone whom he spoke to, someone that he cared for; she was not only a picture in a paper, or a face online. But, she was, now, a voice that he could no longer hear in person. She was gone. 

Most days, Erik would sit at his piano with sheet music set up in front of him, hoping that his inner daemons would allow creativity to flow through from his brilliant mind into his talented hands. Many of these days he would sit in silence, not being able to find the right notes to compose the right chords, not being able to make magic. It was no Don Juan, and it was no Love Never Dies--both pieces he’d composed for Christine to sing, though she’d only had knowledge of one of them. He just couldn’t find anything that worked. Nothing sounded the same anymore, and he felt as if he’d lost his ability to create beautiful music. 

When he had finally given up on creating something new, the years of silence began. The neighbors, though all trash in some way or another, had rather enjoyed hearing his beautiful melodies, and were the first to try and investigate when the music stopped. They never got an answer as to why it did, or when it would come back--and after a while, they got used to hearing the silence once more. Erik Destler became a ghost again.


	5. Be My Harlequin || AU Gotham Drabble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU Gotham Drabble  
> Characters: Harleen Quinzel, Ethel Peabody, Hugo Strange, Jerome Valeska   
> Tags: "Cross over," JokerxHarleyQuinn, Joker Origin Story, Harley Quinn Origin Story, AU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part two of a (so far only two part) shitty idea I had to bring Harley Quinn into the Gotham universe. Comment if you think it's as bad of an idea as I do. 
> 
> xx Emma

“So tell me about this patient, that scared away the doctor,” Dr. Quinzel said as Ms. Peabody led her around Arkham. Hugo had felt terrible about not being able to take her on the tour himself, but he did have plenty of work to do. Harleen understood that, and assured him that it was alright. Ms. Peabody didn’t seem as thrilled as he was, but she did her job. 

“Caucasian male, aged eighteen, in for the murder of his mother. He’s extremely suggestive and manipulative. Harvey Dent, that promising young lawyer who hasn’t lost a case, he worked with the D.A. during the trial, Valeska still won with an insanity plea. They sent him here instead of Blackgate.” She kept her eyes forward as they continued to walk. “This is the common area, the bars are for our protection.” 

They stopped in front of a large open space that looked like an over-sized lock up at a local precinct. Harleen was rather surprised that the bars were there, and that all the patients were dressed in old-fashioned prison uniforms. She didn’t think that either of those things did much to help cure the patients, but she didn’t say anything. Ms. Peabody was not the right person to bring her concerns to. She decided that she’d rather talk to a few patients and ask how they felt about the institution before bringing it up to Hugo. 

The reforms were pushed to the back of her mind though, as she’d heard the name Valeska come out of Ms. Peabody’s mouth. Harleen turned away from the patients, who wandered aimlessly behind the bars, to face her guide. “Jerome Valeska?” She asked, raising a brow as she spoke. 

“So, even you’ve heard of him. I’m not surprised. Every city on the coast thrives on Gotham’s chaos.” 

“He was all over the news,” Harleen explained, “I remember watching part of the trial, noting the little things he did to fool most people. He’s very self aware, that’s what makes him dangerous. Unlike other patients, he knows what he’s doing, and he doesn’t care about the consequences.” 

“You’ve done your homework,” Ms. Peabody replied with a smirk. 

“Merely an observation,” Dr. Quinzel remarked. 

“Either way, you’ll have a bright future here at Arkham. Now, let’s continue the tour.”


	6. Vampires? (Supernatural Drabble)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My first attempt at publishing a Supernatural related drabble.

Every noise was amplified and my head was pounding. I sat at the bar, gripping my hair in tight fists as I rocked back and forth. I probably looked like a total nutcase. Across the room I could hear, and smell, two men who had come into the pub together. They were talking about vampires. It sounded absurd, and I tried to ignore it among the rest of the nonsensical and borning chatterings of the patrons, but then I noticed that they switched topics of conversation. I heard one of them say that he was going to buy me a drink. I didn’t move. I didn’t even look up when he came to sit next to me. “Hey, sweetheart,” he said in a husky voice. The pounding of his heart, and I still didn’t understand why I could even hear the heartbeats of every person in the room, was almost louder than his voice. 

I hadn’t realised, but I had been biting my lip rather harshly. When I released it from my teeth, and turned ever so slightly to look at him, the man reached for a napkin and gently wiped away at the blood. I sighed, but I wasn’t able to say anything to him. He looked at the empty glass in front of me, and then back into my eyes. I had never seen eyes so green, but then again, my senses were heightened by a million at the moment. They were beautiful. As much as I wanted to keep looking at him, I diverted my attention to my glass, trying to escape the sudden urge I had to- jump him? His heartbeat was steady and calm, but it became louder to me. 

“What’s your poison?” he asked, eyeing me carefully. I suddenly felt as if he knew something that I didn’t; I guessed that he could possibly have known what was happening to me. Maybe it was because I was so desperate to understand the pain and the hunger I felt, or maybe he could really give me answers, but whatever it was, I felt like I could trust him. 

“Whiskey, neat,” I answered. My voice was quiet. I was finding it hard to cope with the noise of the bar, adding my own voice to the mix was just awful. 

He smirked, and ordered me another drink. “I like a girl who likes liquor,” he told me. I fought the urge to roll my eyes. “But, don’t worry. I’m not here to hit on you. You need that drink,” he told me, now handing a fresh glass to me. “I’m Dean, by the way.” 

“Charlotte,” I mumbled, taking the glass from him and downing it all in one go. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got this splitting headache, and-” 

Dean put his hands up as if to surrender, “Let’s go outside. I can walk you to your car.” 

“I walked actually.” We were not heading for the exit. I had noticed out of the corner of my eye as I stood up from the barstool that Dean had slapped a bill down on the bartop. I would never normally let a stranger just pay for my alcohol, but I felt so sick I couldn’t have been bothered to worry about something so trivial. 

“Let me drive you home then,” he offered. Despite what he had told me at the bar, his arm was now around my waist as we walked out the door. It took everything in me not to push him away and then kill him… I had never had a homicidal tendency before, nor had I ever fantasised about it. Now, I wanted nothing more than to bite into Dean’s throat. The noises from the bar, though still loud and incessant, were now muffled by the brick walls and the wind that lay between us. It was cold outside, but I didn’t mind it too much. 

“Charlotte,” Dean said as we neared a black car. I had never known much about cars, but I’m pretty sure it was a classic Chevrolet of some sort. It was a nice car, to say the least. “Were you attacked by someone on the way to the pub?” We had stopped walking, and in the process he had boxed me in between himself and his car. He looked me in the eyes; his expression was beyond serious. The tone of this man’s voice said he was a cop, but his demeanor said anything but. “I need you to tell me what happened.” 

“H-How do you know about that?” I was beginning to feel afraid. 

“Charlotte, I promise I’ll give you answers. But, you’ve gotta help me out here, first. Did someone attack you on your way to the pub?” 

“Yes.” I bit my lip again. 

Dean sighed and looked past me toward a brick wall of the building across the road from the pub. After drawing in a deep breath he looked back at me. “And did the attacker bleed into your mouth?” He arched a brow as he waited for my answer. It was the weirdest question that anybody had ever asked me, but I could tell he meant business. 

“I think so. Listen, I need to get going-” 

“Charlotte, you’re in danger. That headache of yours, it’s the worst you’ve ever had in your life right? And you can hear every noise around, like every noise- from the sound of distant traffic, to the couple making out at the bar inside, to the sound of my heart. Your mouth hurts, and you haven’t reached up to feel the sore spot in your gums because your scared you might find something that doesn’t belong there. You’re hungry, and you’ve never felt so hungry before in your life.” 

“What the hell-” 

“You were attacked by a vampire, Charlotte. I can help you.” 

“A vampire? What the-” 

“Dean!” The voice of the other man, that I had heard previously, called out. He came over to us, jogging lightly. His heart rate was higher than Dean’s but it was evident that he had just been running after something. “I lost him- is she?” 

“Oh yeah. She’s turning,” Dean told him. 

“Could you please tell me what’s really going on?” I demanded to know. The sound of my own voice felt unbearable. 

“Well-” 

“Charlotte,” Dean informed the other man. 

“-Charlotte,” he said awkwardly, “There’s no easy way to say this, but you’re turning into a vampire.” He paused, to take in my reaction. I was so dumbfounded I didn’t know how to react though, this was ridiculous. “We can cure you, though.”

“I highly suggest you take us up on this offer. I uh, I wouldn’t want to gank such a pretty girl.” So much for not hitting me on. Wait- did he just say he was going to kill me? 

My breathing hitched and I realised I was more scared than I had ever been before. “You’re crazy. There is no such thing as vampires. Now, please, just leave me alone.”


End file.
